The Rake's Handbook (3 page)

“I don't understand. What's the difference between a bang-up blade and a rake?”

He stared up at the cloudless blue sky for a full minute without responding. Then the stunning smile she first encountered at the assembly appeared, followed by a wink. “Well, a rake
is
vile: drinking, wenching, gaming.” He leaned close and spoke in a deep rumble. “A most unsuitable lover to the lady involved. While a bang-up blade is a freethinker.” He looked skyward and chuckled. “And in amorous relations, a man who is truly
upstanding
.”

She tried very, very hard not to laugh at his inappropriate innuendo. “Sir, you are
the
most forward man—ever.” The gossip she heard at the assembly must in fact be true. Publishing a handbook of questionable taste, reckless wagers over females, multiple mistresses, and maybe even a lady handing him a baby on his doorstep.

“Only harmless words, dear lady. If judged by my actions today, you will find I am a proper gentleman.”

“You call sitting scandalously close to a lady you have just met proper?”

“Touché. But this rock is small, and I've no intention of sitting in the lake.”

“Are you telling me that you are no longer a rake, and thus do not seduce women? What about your infamous wager with a Lord Parker over a fly? I heard a beautiful lady was somehow involved. Was that story false?”

“We were mere youths. Besides, that fly was a private wager. My scoundrel of a fly was smaller than Parker's oaf of a fly and more likely to leave the window first—or so I thought. I had nothing to do with the brawl afterward, but nevertheless, I paid the lady innkeeper for her five windows.” He lifted his chin in mock indignation.

She laughed heartily. “Yes, I understand how that tale might be misconstrued as gaming.” She attempted a serious expression. “Clearly spirits were not involved. I am glad you are not a rake, because now I won't have to fend off any attempts at seduction.”

His grin was a mixture of expressions, half amusement, half devoid of shame. “A proper gentleman always gives a lady what she desires. I would be honored to have you fend me off, but I didn't hear a
please
.”

“Oh, no. I just meant to teas—”

“The rakes I know don't seduce
innocents
. Spoils one's reputation. Besides, too much talking involved, explanations, flattery.” He uncrossed his arms, leaned back, and rested on his palms. “I wrote all this down in a book, of course. The title is
The
Rake's Handbook
.” Another unnatural and wholly wicked grin spread across his lips. “
Including
Field
Guide
.” The silence stretched. “Have you read it?”

“No, no, of course not.”

“I know the words by heart. For your amusement and pleasure, I'd be honored to recite the first chapter for you now.”

She should be affronted, not amused, but she laughed anyway. “That is not necessary, I can assure you.” Was he trying to shock her or determine if she was married? Either way, he was an expert tease and a devilishly clever man. “I'm a widow, so I'm not in your book.”

“Yes, you are, my fetching female. I included widows in the handbook section, the first part of the book. My friend, George Drexel, penned the second part, the field guide. In that section, Drexel praises widows in great detail.” He let out a warm, deep laugh. “It's rather shocking, but Drexel lists widows under the heading ‘Houses to Let.'”

“Oh.” His brazen innuendo proved unstoppable. Since his conversation and good looks had a profound effect upon her heart rate, not to mention her clarity of mind, he must be a professional seducer. If so, she might be fishing in a lake far too deep to be safe for a respectable lady.

She tried to crawl around him, but he kept his focus on a butterfly spiraling over the tall reeds for a full minute, so he failed to move his well-muscled thigh, and blocked her exit. Then he leaped to his feet and held out his hand to assist her. Without thought, she accepted his offer. The warmth of his palm caused her breath to catch, and she expected him to let go.

He did not let go.

“You really are a rake,” she whispered, the sight and feel of their joined hands warming her cheeks. “A proper gentleman would never hold a lady thus. I have been warned about your charms. Perhaps I too should write everything down. Pen a handbook to instruct my widowed sisters about what to expect upon attempted seduction and how to fight it.”

“Factual or satirical?”

She bit her lower lip to stop an indelicate reply.

“I could write that handbook too.”

His boast made her smile. “I seem to have found another trait of a rake.”

“Humph. I'd be delighted to show you
all
of my traits. Perhaps start with chapter one?” The determination in his voice indicated he was quite willing to comply.

“Please do, sir,” she replied in a facetious tone, tugging her hand free. “But I can already tell that I'll stop reading your book after the table of contents. You know, all of those funny pages in the front of the book numbered
v
and
i
.”

He chuckled softly, then stared at her until he captured her gaze. “My handbook starts with fine eyes.” He reached up and swept back a ringlet that had fallen over her eye and carefully tucked the curl under her bonnet.

Her heartbeat raced.

“The eyes are followed by a notable vee.” His gaze lowered to the upper edge of her bodice and lingered in the center.

“Oh my, if that's the table of contents, I don't dare read chapter one.”

“I'd be pleased to read you all of the chapters. There are a total of…” He glanced at her leisurely, from the top of her leghorn bonnet down to her sensible half boots. His focus returned up to her neck—almost. His chest broadened as he inhaled. “Ten.”

“Ten!”

He gave her a smoldering look from under heavy lashes. “Ten in volume one,” he continued in a silky baritone. “Let's start with chapter one.” He leaned forward slowly, staring at her mouth as if he might take liberties and kiss her. The distance between them shortened to inches. Close enough to feel his warm breath.

“Enough.” She stepped backward. “Enough of chapter one. I am finished with your book.” She resisted covering both burning cheeks with her hands. “I'll return home now. I seem to be a little heated from the sun.” She avoided his gaze and reached for her book.

Henry was right. Since Mr. Thornbury's rakish charms were beyond what she expected, she should never again speak to him alone. He certainly would not have attempted liberties with Henry standing nearby. However, even with Henry's presence, she might not be able to negotiate with him. He was a rake: not pure and not simple. His smiles, chuckles, and smoldering glances intended to blank female minds on purpose.
Curse
his
boots.

“I see I've upset you. Apologies, my lovely fish feaster.”

“I can assure you that your reputation is
just
,” she said, her voice sounding higher than normal.

“A reserved gentleman with exemplary manners?”

“Never…never have I been so late returning home. Please give your mother my respects.” After a brief curtsy, she snatched her fishing pole and punctured her finger on a fishhook. “Ow!”

He held out his hand. “Let me look at that.”

She shook her hand vigorously. “No, thank you. I will consult my doctor for the proper treatment.” She sucked on her finger.

“You should go home and treat that immediately,” he said, sounding distracted and staring at her mouth. “Do you own any medical books?”

She withdrew her finger and felt the cool air ease the pain. “My late husband's study is full of medical books, but they are very detailed and use words I am not familiar with. I read only poetry and novels.”

“I suggest you consult your husband's books. I have confidence you can find the best treatment yourself.”

She nodded, sucking on her finger again.

His eyes focused on her lips and brightened, like a cat that had just spotted a bowl of cream—unattended. “I suggest you start by looking up puncture or—”

“Yes. Yes, I will. Good day, sir.” She grabbed her fishing rod, gloves, and book, and hurried back up the road toward Pinnacles.

Once he was out of sight, her racing heartbeat slowed from immeasurable to fast. Halfway home, the beat slowed to normal. She had made a total cake of herself and failed to get an answer about the foundry—the future of her home. How could one very forward rake distract her so easily?

She put down her load, plucked a daisy, and snatched every petal off.

Obviously her wits had flown. Best to pinch herself hard the next time she met with Mr. Thornbury. Then the pain would halt the onslaught of his attractive figure, his seducing smile, or his laughing blue eyes.

Elinor grinned when she remembered one of her bracelets—shaped like a snake—that hurt whenever she wore it high upon her arm. The armlet felt just like a pinch. So the next time she planned to meet with Mr. Thornbury, she'd wear the bracelet and let the pain focus her mind. She exhaled a long sigh of relief.

Tossing the daisy over her shoulder, she grabbed her equipment and started to run.

Now she had a good plan; William would be impressed. Armed with her painful bracelet, she'd keep her wits sharp and persuade this Mr. Ross Thornbury not to build his foundry. A clear triumph over this charmer who enjoyed making females suffer that…
gentle
panic
.

How could she possibly fail?

The second Ross Thornbury stepped over his drawing room's threshold, his mother asked him a question.

“Well, what do you think?” The sound of Lady Helen Thornbury's voice filled the cavernous room.

Ross cringed. Variations of the same query had vexed mankind for centuries. “What do you think?” could easily be interchanged with “How do you like it?” A gentleman had an easier time finding the correct answer if the object of the inquiry was revealed, such as, “Do you like my gown?” Unfortunately, the luxury of knowing the subject of her question eluded him.

“What do you think of my alteration?”

The question sprang from his mother's lips, so to make her happy, he must find some object that had changed. “Give me a minute.” He inhaled deeply and began his search with the most likely place—her person. Her needlework dropped to her lap as she watched him approach, her pronounced features softened with fondness. To Ross she appeared to have lost at least a stone within the last year, and the small wisps of hair escaping her lace cap were no longer jet.
Was
the
cap
new?
Doubtful. Next he checked her gown. She wore a black wool gown gathered at the neck with no frills and a paisley shawl wrapped around her shoulders. They both seemed vaguely familiar; therefore, it was a safe bet the alteration did not refer to her current dress. Now he faced the greater task of finding the object of change within the vast room.

The loud click from his boots reverberated in the expansive space as he turned a full circle several times to survey the mostly vacant drawing room. He searched from the wood floors to the plaster ceiling, but nothing altered stood out. Shifting the pretty blue box he held in his arms, he noticed the movement briefly caught her attention.

“Well, what do you think?” She sat straight upon the new brocade sofa delivered last week.

“Hmmm…” The yellow sofa, a wing chair, and four bobbin-turned oak chairs faced the fireplace, leaving thirty feet of bare room behind them. She wore an expectant expression, so he redoubled his efforts to discover what she changed. Finally, at a loss to provide the answer, there was only one thing he could do now to make her happy—bluff. “Very nice,” he said, with a cursory inspection around the entire room. Having done his best to please her by general praise, and a glance that must have encompassed whatever object had changed, he attempted to divert her. “How are you today, dear?” He placed the box on an ornately carved mahogany table in front of her and kissed the top of her head.

She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I am well, thank you. I am glad you approve of the robin's egg blue. The color perfectly suits our new yellow sofa.”

After a fleeting grin, Ross peered up to the newly painted walls. The light blue accented the white plaster garlands nicely. For the life of him, he could not remember the old wall color, but the blue did look well now.

“So what is in the box?” She gazed at him fondly.

“A gift for our mantel. Go ahead, open it.”

She opened the box and pulled out a Staffordshire figurine of a shepherdess. At first sight of the two-foot-tall statue, her glorious smile appeared. “Oh, how wonderful. Isn't this lovely? And look at the detail. Even the little sheep have painted pink noses.”

He took his accustomed place on an old upholstered chair facing the sofa, delighted that his gift made her happy. He would always do his best to please her, but any man would draw the line when it came to voluntary admiration of pink sheep noses.

She cradled the shepherdess in her lap. “How was your first day touring the property? Did you meet with Mr. Douglas this afternoon? Did he take my side and agree we must stop the farm improvements until we furnish the house?”

“We had a long talk. I'm impressed with our steward. The home farm is well maintained, and the estate books are in good order. I also examined the terrain where the surveyor suggested we erect the foundry. The ground at the site is elevated, so next week we will dig three wells. If there is no groundwater at a depth of twenty feet, then the site is a good one for a foundry. Imagine it. Once our steam engines are available for sale, Blackwell will generate twice the profits it is currently producing. With all that money, I'll be able to keep my promise. You can then furnish this place with acres and acres of the mahogany furniture you desire, even Gillow's overdecorated firewood.”

He winked at her. “However, before any capital is committed, we must obtain a lease to move our engines across Mrs. Colton's land. My calculations show the foundry will be profitable only if we use a waterway to obtain fuel for the blast furnaces and haul our small steam engines to our customers. Since you are acquainted with our neighbors, you must have met this widow Colton already? What is her situation? Does she need the money?”

Lady Helen stared at his muddy left boot. “Mrs. Colton is a high-spirited lady who is financially independent due to a considerable jointure. She lives in that newer Gothic house in the direction of Knutsford, the one with the lovely view of the river. She is not old, but not young, and has no children from her marriage. She is currently raising her nephew, a Mr. Berdmore Deane. That young coxcomb lacks modesty and is full of silly levity. Indeed, both aunt and nephew are frivolous creatures.”

Ross stared into the fire. “Even if she doesn't need the funds, I can't imagine her refusing the extra capital she would earn from the lease.”

“I wouldn't wager on it. Her late husband left her well provided for.”

“Then I'll call upon her soon and ask for our lease. I've one month to make the first payment to reserve the steam engine for the foundry. If not, I may have to wait months before the next one becomes available.”

A slight haze settled close to the tall fireplace. He strode to the opening, grabbed the poker, and stabbed the fire. “Bloody fireplace! Look at all this smoke. The whole damn house smells smoky. Remind me to have the chimneys cleaned.” A piece of soot landed on his nose, forcing him to wave his hand and step backward.

She shook her head. “I believe they are clean. The smoke is due to the shortness of the chimneys.”

“Excuse me?”

“The chimneys are too short.” She wiped a piece of soot off the ornate table. “To retain the classical elegance of the Palladian style, the chimneys end after they emerge from the roof. The builders considered tall chimneys undesirable, because they would mar the roofline.”

“
Hell's fire
.” He stomped back to his chair.

Her lips pursed before she placed the shepherdess on the ornate table and picked up her needlework. “Where was I? Oh, yes, evidently cleanliness is the price to pay for classical simplicity. What are overworked servants or soiled linens to architectural grace? Grand houses come at a cost, you know.”

“I can fix that problem.”

“You'll lose the elegance of the classical facade.”

“Damn the elegance.”

“That's your third use of bad language, young man.”

“Forgive me.” As a duke's daughter, his mother preferred grand and old-fashioned houses. One of his goals was to bring her fully into the nineteenth century by modernizing Blackwell, but he did not want to pressure her all at once with his planned changes. Every shilling the estate earned he set aside to fund either his share in the foundry or to bring Blackwell abreast of the times. Once these improvements had been implemented, he expected a higher income within the next couple of years. At the moment, he kept her happy using the irregular profits from the sales of his handbook to buy her furniture and gifts. He leaned forward to retrieve his teacup and decided to please her with a proven method to lighten her mood—rouse her feminine curiosity. “I was held up today by some
pretty
estate affairs.”

Her needle stilled, hovering over her work. “Can you tell me the nature of your
pretty
estate affairs?”

“Maybe you could help me out on that score. A truly restorative sight on a sunny day: a beautiful country maid, widow, curly blond hair, brown eyes, dark lashes, and ample…lashes. Has a remarkable talent for a female—fishing. She learned of my business interests from you, so she must be one of your boon companions.”

“Fishing! The countrywomen around here have the oddest hobbies, so fishing shouldn't surprise me. But from your description, I think you refer to our neighbor, Mrs. Elinor Colton.”

“That's Mrs. Colton?” He dropped his teacup on the chair, splashing his knee with the scalding brew. “
The
Mrs. Colton I need to sign our lease? From your earlier description, I expected a daft, gray-haired clergyman's widow, not a young maid in a dimity gown.”

“She
is
a clergyman's widow.”

“Clergymen's widows don't look that live—”

“Look that what?”

“Ah…look that alive.” Instantly his thoughts diverted to the memory of the pretty widow's backside walking home. Her hips swayed an infinitesimal degree detected only by men, a universal siren's call to all men with a pulse.

“That woman has no poise or dignity to speak of. Granted she is lively, but spirit does not compensate for a plump figure and a plain face. How she ever caught the eye of Reverend Colton, I will never understand. Don't tell me you are…you know…interested in her.”

“No, I'm not
interested
in her.” He remembered her lips, and the dimple that played in the corner of her mouth whenever she smiled. He retrieved his teacup and sat forward in his chair. “I gave you a vow… I have changed my actions, but don't expect altered manners and a different man. Besides, a gentleman should meet his new neighbors, and her lease will be crucial to our success. So tell me all about her.” Next he remembered what the widow wore, an unfortunate recollection. Recalling the memory of her gown led to the mental image of him
removing
the gown. Followed by those quick calculations men make without conscious effort, like the time needed to remove every skirt and stocking and stay. He eased back in his chair.
You
promised
Mother
to
reform, no dalliances.
He shifted on the chair's cushions before resting his boot on his knee.

Lady Helen appeared animated now. “I have met Mrs. Colton on several occasions locally and have even been her whist partner once. I first met her at the house of Mr. Henry Browne, a relative and local attorney with whom she may have an understanding or is expecting an offer of marriage.” She frowned at the carpet's faded roses under her feet. “Maybe I'm confused. Could it be Dr. Potts, our notable physician, with whom she has an understanding? He distinguished himself in the war, you know. Of course, those offers are probably all rumors, since I cannot imagine her receiving any on account of her frivolity. What gentleman would want a silly wife? I am pleased to hear you're not interested in her. Now that you have taken up permanent residence at Blackwell, you are the catch of the county. There are several local ladies I wish you to become acquainted with. All of them young, not like Mrs. Colton. Why, she must be at least thirty.”

“Need I remind you I'm almost thirty?”

“No, you can't be. That would make me…wise. You must do as I ask and marry soon. I want many adorable grandchildren.”

“Stop, please. I just wanted to know who Mrs. Colton was.” He rose and stood with his back to the fire, discreetly watching her mood. Since his alluring fisherwoman was Mrs. Colton, he'd have to quickly apologize for his forward behavior at the lake if he wanted her to sign his lease. The foundry's success and mother's future happiness depended upon the widow's goodwill.

Lady Helen's eyes narrowed. “If you continue to frown in that manner, those wrinkles on your forehead will become permanent. Then no sensible woman would want to be seen in your company, much less accept your addresses. You must wed soon. Please, I want you to find a wife and have children.” She paused to consider something for a moment. “I am too young to be called ‘grandmother,' therefore, the moppets shall address me as ‘aunt.' Of course, we will tell the children the truth once they have reached the age of discretion.”

“I never reached the age of discretion.”

She clicked her tongue. “At the rate you are going, you'll spend your life alone. Men need affectionate female company and children hanging on their boots. You are dear to me, Ross, and I would love to see you settled.”

“Humph.” When mothers demanded grandchildren, a gentleman's only recourse was to change the subject. “Do you believe this Mrs. Colton has reasons to refuse our lease and the extra profits it will generate?”

A knowing glare indicated she was not fooled by his diversion. “She has no reason to sign it. Her late husband's fortune came from his father, a wealthy ship owner, and she had a significant dowry too. So she can afford her taxes and life's luxuries. You should see her lovely mourning brooch…diamonds all around.”

“You deserve a diamond mourning brooch. Shall I purchase one?”

“Don't be foolish. Diamonds would only remind me of John's bright…”

“But I owe—”

“Don't…” She struggled to complete the sentence, failed, and remained silent.

He wanted to kick himself. Two years earlier, his younger brother, John, had met with an accident. John's extended suffering unsettled his mother to such an extent, she took shears to her hair. Ross feared she would fade into madness if she remained in London. So last year, upon the advice of her physician, he sent her to live in the country with a promise of John's eventual recovery. Six months ago John died. Now all Ross desired out of life was to see his mother's spontaneous smile. A shadow of her old smile had greeted him upon his arrival, but he longed for the brilliant one. He glanced toward the fire but discreetly kept his attention upon her, trying to discover if time and distance away from John's suffering had cured her eccentricities.